They sat in the big, sombre library where, only a few days before, Diane had seen Derek Pruyn turn his back on her, without even a gesture of farewell.  On the long mahogany table the red azalea was in almost passionate luxuriance of blossom; while through the open window faint odors of lilac came from Miss Lucilla’s bit of garden.

“I don’t want you to think him worse than you’re obliged to,” Marion said, as though in defence of the stand her heart had taken.  “I’ve been told that very few men possess the two kinds of courage—­the moral and the physical.  Savonarola had the one and Nelson had the other; but neither of them had both.  And of the two, for me, the physical is the essential.  I can’t help it.  If I had to choose between a soldier and a saint, I’d take the soldier.  When the worst is said of Monsieur de Bienville, it must be admitted that he’s brave.”

“I’ve always understood that he was a good rider and a good shot,” Diane admitted.  “I’ve no doubt that in battle he would conduct himself like a hero.”

The girl’s head went up proudly, and from the languorous eyes there came one splendid flash before the lids fell over them again.

“I know he would; and when a man has that sort of courage he’s worth saving.”

“You admit, then, that he needs to be—­saved?” Again the heavy lids were lifted for one brief, search-light glance.

“Yes; I admit that.  I believe he has wronged you.  I can’t tell you how I know it; but I do.  It’s to tell you so that I’ve asked you to come here.  I hoped to make you see, as I do, that he’s capable of doing it without appreciating the nature of his crime.  If we could get him to see that—­”

“Then—­what?”

“He’d make you reparation.”

“Are you so sure?”

“I’m very sure.  If he didn’t—­” The consequences of that possibility being difficult of expression, she hung upon her words.

“I should be sorry to have you brought to so momentous a decision on my account.”

“It wouldn’t be on your account; it would be on my own.  I understand myself well enough to see that I could love a dishonorable man; but I couldn’t marry him.”

“You have, of course, your own idea as to what makes a man dishonorable.”

“What makes a man dishonorable is to persist in dishonor after he has become aware of it.  Any one may speak thoughtlessly, or boastfully, or foolishly, and be forgiven for it.  But he can’t be forgiven if he keeps it up, especially when by his doing so a woman has to suffer.”

The movement with which Diane pushed back her chair and rose betrayed a troubled rather than an impatient spirit.

“Miss Grimston,” she said, standing before the girl and looking down upon her, “I should almost prefer not to have you take my affairs into your consideration.  I doubt if they’re worth it.  I can’t deny that I shrink from becoming a factor in your life, as well as from feeling that you must make your decisions, or unmake them, with reference to me.”